Dala Horse
by Kisshulover1
Summary: 1700 and Sweden's Golden Age is under attack. Tino is hit hard by the advances of the War and fears for his survival. When he spies a wounded Calvary soldier on his land, he begins to realize the fight for what you love is sometimes worth all the pain. Rated M for reasons.
1. Chapter 1

EDIT: THIS IS A RE-UPLOAD OF THE FIRST EDITED CHAPTER!: **"What's she doing, starting another story?" Yeah….I know, I'm stupid… But this idea has been permanently burned in my skull and I just gotta' get it out! **I do not own Axis Powers Hetalia nor its characters though I do own this story.WARNING**: If you are squeamish of blood, killing, and violence-YE BE WARNED! (Or y'know….decided to read it because you're secretly a blood lover and you wanna' read some really good disgusting shit.) I'd like to thank my beautiful translators- **MalinChan**, **yotzie**, **Ruusu**, **koolionbutterflyhahaha**, **Another Mad Swiss**, **Lillens**, **DianeLeBlanc99**, and **Sarai Onyx Vainamoinen**. Much love to you guys!**

**So climb into a time machine (Tardis preferred), grab a Swedish Textbook-and get ready, cuz we're about to go back to March 1700-to learn about a little painted horse that gave hope to a few lonely souls amidst the bloody hardships of a long and devastating war….**

…**.**

_Ratta-tatttttt…..swzzzzzergggggggratta-tatttaaaaatttaaaa….boom….ratta-tatatatatatataa…._

There the sounds were again, the booms and thrills of the muskets, the smoky sky that blocked out the whiteness of the stars with their black tendrils and their ashen breath. The pine trees swayed and creaked like broken bones pushed back and forth in some weary dance. Tino almost wished they would just topple and fall. Fall on the house and shatter the roof, break the thin tiles and the sweet cedar smelling wood. Collapse on top and instantly killing him and his little baby boy. A quick death, covered in debris and dust and ultimately left along. Tino bit his lip as he clutched his precious son to him, the little child no more than seven years of age and yet he had seen so much folly and strife in that short amount of time. Ohh yes, he just wished the trees would topple down and end this all.

Thinking of such things, such dreary dreary things, the Finn's eyes grew sad as he looked at the crown of the childs head as Peter, his adopted son since long ago, buried his nose against his Pappa's shoulders. Tino could feel the childs limbs quaking beneath him and could feel the warm drops of tears on his collar bone as they pattered from squeezed eyes. Tino sighed solemnly, holding Peter closer to him as they waited out the gunfire that seemed like it was right at their door step and not a few miles away.

_Sweeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrg…ratatataaaatatatattttttaaaaa….boom!_

Another mountain blown away, another forest cut, another man cut down with a blood curdling scream. Another night in hell.

The Finn of twenty winters cringed once more, hearing the clicks from the muskets drone on and on, closer and closer. _Rattatatat!_ It was like a bloody call from a great heavy monster, with wicked jaws and clicking teeth-the monster of war.

_Click click click._

They used to not hear it so often, yet now it was like a lullaby of death and screams had come to roll them back into sleep each night. Or what little sleep they could afford to give themselves…

It had only been a few weeks since the Danes had decided to make one of the first military advancements in the war-take back what had been stolen from them by the Swedish Empire long ago-take back _Holstien-Gottorp_.*

It was bad luck, all bad luck, Tino would say to himself each morning as he pulled on his leather shoes and slung his rifle over his shoulders and made his way to the meager fields that fed him and his son.

Just a nasty draw of cards, a nasty roll of the die, a struggle between the Devil and God-the Devil was winning.

Another burst of noise flew over their heads-cannons. They were using cannons now.

It was a sharper louder noise than before and it didn't take long for Peter to make a clipped scream of fright as they skyrocketed over them, causing the house to shake a bit-it's small posts of wood and leather doing little to hold the shanty together. For a second Tino thought the whole thing would fall apart and collapse on top of them.

_T'would be a better way to die than by a Danish musket_…. Tino thought bitterly.

The Swede's had promised the citizens of the Swedish Satellite state of Holstien-Gottorp absolute protection from the Danes. And Tino damned well believed it, being a residence of the state since he was born. He was a Finn living in a Swedish world, so he knew the promise wasn't exactly engraved in gold or anything. But it was a promise and promises, no matter how much they lie, seem to be better than the cold hard truth.

Yet ever since Frederik IV of Denmark-Norway set his vengeful eyes back on the sight of the beloved Danish land that had been taken from him by the Swedes, the war had escalated into a bloody battle for Sweden to keep her prideful standing as the most powerful country in the Baltic's-a title that was slowly slipping from the countries grasp. Even Charles V of Denmark who later took the throne had his sights set on territory lost to the gleaming swords of the Swedes. _Scania_ and _Holstien-Gottorp _were the prizes, and Tino knew the Danes would fight to their last breath to take back those lands that were rightfully theirs.

Tino bit his lip sourly, it was all politics, all struggles to keep dominance over the other. The Finn knew this little war hadn't just been thought of in the blink of an eye by greedy men-on no-this Anti-Swedish war had been boiling up for _years_.

It was a coalition, a back handed slap to the Golden Age that Sweden had been living and thriving in. It was a stake driven through the entire country. And it all started with three nations who decided they had had enough of the lions yellow and blue banner-they had had enough of Swedish Pride and Swedish wealth and Swedish domination. They had had enough and decided to do something about it-in the cruelest way possible. By betraying Sweden from within and slowly churning it into chaos.

Tino clutched Peter to his lap more firmly, remembering how the towns bells had wrung like a mad screaming chorus of alarm. How the printing shops had all busied themselves with inks and parchment to produce words on paper that all but declared that Swedish law, Swedish rule was under attack and that Charles XII of Sweden, a King of fourteen years old, would do everything in his power to crush the opposition down.

But, Tino thought with a heavy sense of annoyance-what was a fourteen year old Swedish King could to do in this crossfire? The nations had attacked Sweden precisely because of the weak king!

Russia, Denmark and Saxony-Poland were declared enemies of the Swedish state.

These three countries had a stated belief that Sweden's time had come to an end-that a King who was but a child could not hold the golden reigns of what the country once was-it was time to extinguish the torches of the Swedes. Tino grimaced. And that first torch, was right where Tino and Peter were standing.

Tino had never down anyone any harm in this world. He was a simple farmer on a two acre plot of land. He grew cabbages and sold them at market, saving a bit of money to feed himself and the little babe named Peter who came to him on his doorstep those long years ago. He paid his taxes, minded his manners in the pretense of the Swedish nobles, went to church on every Sunday, and he even did his good deed of keeping his damned mouth shut when all he wanted to do was kick every sorry powdered wig of Swedish ranking off the young Swedish Kings little head and give him a what for!

Tino grumbled and shook with anger, hating himself for ever being born here in this stupid province.

The little cottage was all the two had, the little field that barely did any good to produce food and profit had long since gone sour with useless soil. Yet this was home. And his home was quickly being invaded. The Danes had set their eyes on the fortress of Tönning.* which was dangerously close to Tino's little cottage. It was a siege of sorts, the Danish-Norwegian troops of 20,000 men strong using all their damned might to light a fire under the Swedish crown-and so far that fire was roaring and burning very nicely. Tino had heard that the Danes wanted to remove the Swedish troops from the Duchy of Holstien-Gottorp, but were so far having a hard time getting through the Swedish Calvary-but all that seemed to be a lie now, when every day Tino and Peter would hear the guns clap with might and the withered shouts of men and the cries of bleating horses left dying on a red field.

Only time will tell, thought Tino as another rapturous shake caused dust to fly from the rafters of the small hovel-the wooden floors creaking with a mocking sound that made Peter sniffle and cry even more.

"Shhh, Shh, Baby, it's okay-it's okay. They'll stop soon. They'll stop soon…" Tino murmured into the childs hair. _They have to stop soon. They just have to. _But even that Tino knew, was a lie. It would never stop. Never.

Peter didn't seem to take any comfort in his Pappa's words, as he merely scowled like children do and huff-trying to seem like a big boy who wasn't afraid of any 'ol cannons or guns. He was Peter Väinämöinen. Nothing scared him! Not thunder, not bears, nor even those funny looking Danish soldiers with their silly coats and ugly horses. No, nothing could scare him, the little child declared within his head, his tears drying bit by bit.

Nothing in the world.

_Ayooooooooooonnnnnnnnnnnn!_

Peter's eyes grew wide as his shoulders sunk backward into the arms of his father once more. The child clenched his teeth together till they groaned with agony, his hands wired into Tino's vest.

Nothing except that. That. What was that?

Tino seemed to hear it and at once became quiet alarmed, his hands drawing Peter behind him and into the small little crevice that the small little dresser made once pressed against the walls and their corners.

"Pappa….?" Peter whispered like Tino instructed him to. Never talk too loudly, never sigh too loudly, never _breathe_ too loudly. For they might burst in and kill you.

"Yes Baby, I heard it too." Tino assured the child, his own voice bordering on a wispy crackle. Tino's eyes grew white at their edges, like a rolling horses, whose about to bolt into the mist.

It wasn't the heavy clicking of muskets, the blasts of canons nor the shouts of feverishly dying men….It was…A crooning…A bellowing of sorts that seemed to be from an animal.

Tino sat himself up slightly from where he and Peter sat huddled near the upturned mattress of their hay stuffed bed. Tino's back grated against the dressers scraggly doors, the brass knobs creating an unpleasant bruising on his spine, but still, slowly, and with much pain he crawled to the right of him, fumbling around in the pleasant yet crafty darkness of the night till he came upon the stocky legs of a small table.

Tino, his hands quaking, reached round his small nightstand numbly till he found a little candle holder, the waxy bulb of it stuffed with an almost dead candle, the wick having been twisted off slightly-left gnarled and ugly looking.

Tino frowned at the little candle before he, searching his vest pocked for a match, produced a small little box with stale little pieces of wood-he only prayed that they would still light-Lord knows they must be months old from when they could…Buy matches and their bread too…No they didn't even have the luxury for food. Such help was the Swedish Crown to them he thought for a moment of bitterness.

Yet soon he clutched one of the little stubbles with his thumb and wracked it over the bottom of his shoe, creating a foul stench of smoke as the little stick went up in flame. Then, with hands cupped over the precious little light, he brought it to the wick to let it catch. It did, quivering and filmy, it glanced the room with a shadowy grace of light, making Tino smile despite himself. Maybe the world wouldn't be so cruel to them after all.

"Pappa, Pappa, what're you doin'?" The little impish voice of Peter sounded into the room. The child was rubbing his red rimmed eyes and clutching to an old woolen blanket that had a few threads out of place. Tino smiled kindly to the child, not wishing to alarm him and he placed the candle holder on the night stand.

"I'm going to see what the noise was outside, my little lion cub. Perhaps the pesky old raccoons have gotten into a bit of the chicken feed." Tino mumbled, hoping that his son would be content with Tino's words and let the Finn tend to the noise.

Peter, sniffling his nose and wiping it with the back of his hands, only nodded solemnly and snuggled back into the blankets.

"But be careful Papa! Come back soon or I'll never forgive you!" Peter warned with a bit of terrified spite. He didn't want his Pappa to leave but… If he must then he must. Tino was only a child. He would wait here like a good brave boy until Pappa came back safe and well. You'll see Peter, you're just being silly. Pappa'll come back, you'll see. Peter all but told himself as he clutched at his hands under the blanket.

Tino smiled sweetly down at the little child and brought him up into his arms for a soft kiss across his temple, making the shivering child calm down some. Then, with a few more sweetened words, Tino tucked Peter into the lumpy hay filled mattress that had been dragged onto the floor and set the seven year old into the wooden bed frame, tucking quilts around his body to keep him warm and give him the desperate illusion of safely that the child seemed to feverishly require.

"I'll be back Peter-keep safe inside the house-If I see you outside or near the window I'll tan you!" Tino warned softly, the boy underneath the blankets nodding his head, his eyes wide eyed, not wanting to be punished for misbehaving.

After Tino felt that the boy would not disobey and get himself into mischief, the Finn, holding the little candles flame in his hands, made his way through the thin bedroom door to shuffle in the mute darkness towards the living and kitchen room.

Placing the candle on the small dinner table near the corner of the petite room, Tino fumbled his hands over the latch of the front door, the heavy wooden frame causing him some trouble before he, at last, got the bolt to open freely-allowing him to open the door and leave the small safety of the house into the obsidian darkness that would soon swallow him.

Outside smelled like dust and death. The sulfuric and metallic taste of gunpowder bit into the Finn's senses and made him cringe. The sky was smoky, the cool spring breezes causing the wind to carry the smoke powder over and a ways through the forest that skirted along the area. It was like a swirl of incense that dragged its way over the Finn's body, making him feel rather calm when he should be twanged and wound up with anxiousness and fear.

The lone fence that used to house Tino's four milking goats swung open eerily in the nights blackness like a warning of what had already been lost. The Goats had long been gone for weeks-having been taken by a group of soldiers for the war effort to feed the soldiers. Tins of tobacco, bottles of milk in the ice box, pickled cucumbers and licorice root, salted pork-it had all be taken by the soldiers. Everything went to the war effort. Everything. Including Tino's very sanity.

And so the Finn lost most of his cabbage crop after it was picked clean to feed the hungry Swedish soldiers who ate it with licking fingers and dirty faces all smiling as they bit into the lettuce and piled it high into watery stews and packed it thick into the backs of their wagons. His four goats had been slaughtered right in front of him, their white bellies fattened with milk and a kid or two, carried on spits dripping blood. Such as waste of life it was.

Tino closed his eyes, focusing on the hissing of the night insects.

_Uwhuuuuuu….Unnnuggggghhh…._

Tino's eyes opened wide in a flash, his ears hearing the crooning noises again. Those animalistic bleats that sounded much to Tino's surprise like a big great horse.

Tino, his breath catching in his throat, followed the source of the noise, the candles waxy wick causing smoke to sting his eyes. _The smoke from a candle is better than the smoke from smoldering bodies_. Tino decided with a sick sense of comfort that surprised even himself.

The Finn's legs carried him fumbling over the dregs of upturned earth that, until half his crop had been taken, would have been used to plant the heads of more cabbage with thick juicy leaves that collected dew in the night and sun in the morning. Tino scowled bitterly, hating this stupid war more than anything in his life.

He was just about to climb over a rotten log on his property, the shell of the tree part way chopped in half to use for firewood when the weather got nippy, when he heard the noise again, only this time it was more breathless, more shrill. More in pain.

It was definitely a horse.

Tino ran swiftly into the direction of the suffering animal, for surely it must be suffering if it made such pained bleating noises?

He stumbled blindly his hands trying desperately to keep the candle going, the rush of speed by his legs making it difficult as the light flickered and threatened to go out, but still Tino, throat icy from the cold, kept his pace.

Over stiff wooden fences he climbed and through gopher holes he treded until he saw a lone dark shadow limping and shuffling around in tight circles near a few clumps of broken down aspen saplings. The huge animal seemed to not pay attention to the awestruck Finn, as the beast was too busy chomping on a bit of iron and making the most heart wrenching noises Tino had ever heard.

The thing was coal black-or maybe that was due to the nights trickery of color-with a single stripe of white that started at the beasts forehead and drew silently all the way down to his muzzle which was humming with steam.

White foam and froth was coated along the animals sides to give it a sickening look of white-as if the ebony colored horse was part way to hell and heaven, white and black. Its saddle stirrups were tangled beyond belief-one slung all the way over the leather saddle, the other left lifeless near the animals girth, the cinch belt seeming to be wound too tight to even let the thing breathe properly.

Though the Finn could barely see into the darkness of the night, he could hear the thing humming and coughing, hacking on its own spit as its head was drawn to the floor-it looked broken more than it looked alive. It reminded Tino of himself in a way-surviving yet barely, and only wanting death but never receiving it. Tino sighed with the heavy weight of sadness that pushed down upon his heart.

He wanted to save the thing, wanted to tend to the poor beast that was undoubtedly a Calvary mans horse. Tino could spy the rough saddle blanket that was twisted on the horses sweat drenched body. It was red and yellow and smelled of mud and sweat, its stench making Tino scrunch his nose up involuntarily. Tino then, with curious movements, placed the candle on a small nearby rocky path-glancing back up at the horse that must have been fifteen hands tall, all muscle with thin legs yet powerful haunches and body.

Tino, with his hands splayed wide, cautiously began to walk towards the great hulking thing, the animals ears pricking up, but its head still down in the dust, it's eyes softened and almost dead looking. Tino furrowed his brows at the sight of the poor thing.

The horse made a small quivering noise as the Finn, close enough to touch the breast of the beast, made a small clicking noise with his tongue to coax the animal into lifting his undoubtedly tired head.

The horse simply stood still while Tino brushed his fingers over the horses frock, the animals head bent low to the ground, making Tino have to bend down along with the thing-a movement he was admittingly a bit anxious about, as the horse could buck from panic and trample him.

But somehow he trusted this horse, and he only hoped the horse trusted him as well.

The bridle was torn at the throat latch and the horse had shavings of scars pink with burns all along it's large sweet looking head. It's hair was wet and matted-either with dew or blood, Tino wasn't sure. _How long have you been out here?_ Tino wondered to himself as he squatted to the right of the horse, placing his warm hands on the front leg of the animal, clicking his tongue to lift up one leg, rolling it to a fro to check for any unseen damage.

The animal was quiet as Tino prodded and checked for injuries, finding bloodied knees and slashes of wounds that looked to have been made by the metal pike of a weapon or the slashing of a thin saber. Tino hummed sorely as he felt his way to the horses saddle, the cinch pinching into the horses stomach, making the thing wheeze as Tino tried to loosen it.

"Hold still now, in a minute you'll be free…" Tino promised the black horse as he began to work on the strap, only slightly feeling the horse shake as the Finn busied himself.

Tino was about to pull the leather though the cinch loop to slide off the saddle when from far off a canon sounded and the horse, its eyes growing white as the silken moon above, made a rolling shriek and bucked forward, knocking Tino down and dragging something past him-a tree branch perhaps, still connected to the horses halter rope or stirrups. Yet the saddle that was before tightly upon the horse lurched off the sweat drenched body of the beast as the animal limped into the darkness a few feet away with crooked legs and a swinging head in small fits of madness.

"_Skit_!"* something groaned into that solid cold darkness a little ways away from where Tino had landed from the fall.

Tino felt his heart stop dead in its murderous beating as his brain registered the noise, the sound of a human voice-the sound of a man-the sound of a _Swede_.

…**.**

ATTENTION! THIS CHAPTER HAS BEEN EDITTED! **IF ANYTHING IS WRONG WITH MY UNDERSTANDING OF HISTORY-Please correct me! Review please! **

…

**Authors Notes:**

-It had only been a few weeks since the Danes had decided to make one of the first military advancements in the war-take back what had been stolen from them by the Swedish Empire long ago-take back _Holstien-Gottorp_**.*-**_**Holstien-Gottorp **_**is a Swedish Satellite state during 1700, it is now southern Denmark and parts of Germany. **

-"_Skit_!"***-"Shit" in Swedish **


	2. Chapter 2

**Here is chapter two! Hope you enjoy it! I'd like to thank my beautiful translators- **MalinChan**, **yotzie**, **Ruusu**, **koolionbutterflyhahaha**, **Another Mad Swiss**, **Lillens**, **DianeLeBlanc99**, and **Sarai Onyx Vainamoinen**. Much love to you guys! So sit back and enjoy, Dala Horse, chapter two! I suggest listening to the **1994 Black Beauty Movie **Soundtrack while reading!**

…

Tino couldn't control it. He just could not control the half scream-half shriek that escaped his lungs and flew up into the air like an ugly black bird being let free from it's prison. He screamed his little head off in a none too manly fashion but he damned well didn't care because he was laying in a patch of dirt with his bum to the floor, with horse sweat on his hands and a Swedish soldier not but a few feet away from him.

Before could clench his teeth shut to stop the damnable scream once again from erupting out his throat he felt something rough and warm slide over his mouth and press firmly down against his lips. A hand. He was being suffocated by a hand.

Tino let out another muffled cry as he kicked back at his capturer, his eyes rolling and his feet jostling themselves into the air as he felt more weight exerted on him. It was at that moment that he realized that the Swedish soldier was probably pinning his body down because he thought he was a Danish soldier! An enemy! Tino's eyes welled into tears as he fought harder for escape, for air, to try and state his claim that he was a Finn! A Finn! A subject of the Swedish crown! _I'm not your enemy!_

"Ah, fer' Heaven's sake, not gunna' suffocate ya'-yer just too loud is all." Came a grumbled voice that must have belonged to the Swede because Tino sure as hell knew that was not Danish being spoken.

Tino thrashed even more, wanting escape and wanting it now. He could feel his vest tangle and burrow into the dirt under him as he tried to kick his feet up like a bucking horse bent on freedom and nothing else.

"Shh, Shh now, calm down! If ya' quit movin' and stay quiet I'll release m' hand-okej?"* That same voice said with a sort of pleading into the darkness. Tino felt his eyes squint into the night as he stopped thrashing so much, now only wiggling like a caught snake being dragged up from his burrow. He still fought, but only less, the lack of food and sleep in his body seeming to ware down upon him like a heavy slate of rock.

"See now, wasn't so hard. Alright, I'll let ya' go now." The voice said softly, and, like promised, those big hands that smelled like leather oil and earth were removed from the Finn's mouth. The elbow that was slung across Tino's rib cage was also tucked away and, with much effort, Tino saw the huge shape of the man crawl backward like a wounded cat to give the Finn some much needed space.

Tino, taking some precious time to catch his breath decided to weigh his options. If he ran away right now he would more than likely be shot for abandoning a Swedish solider when he could have taken him in. Yet if he did take him in, what would he feed him? Dust and dirt? They had barely nothing, not even a crumb! Every night for the past week Tino had been going without supper while he gave the meager scraps that they did have to Peter. The boy was more precious to Tino than his own life-he could not invite another mouth to feed-not when things were already this strained.

But…

It was more than likely that this Swedish Calvary man had a gun. And with a gun came authority. If Tino ran right now to the safely of his cottage through the deserted fields, what's to stop the man from pulling the trigger and letting a whole flew of power and smoke burst through Tino's body like a heated tone of glass? Tino shivered. No, he had to stay alive for Peter. He would have to let this soldier into his house. Starving was a more dignified way of dying than being shot in the back. He growled bitterly to himself.

"Are you a soldier?" Tino asked softly, not moving from his spot, no further to the soldier, no farther away.

The black shadowed figure seemed to ponder this as he hunched over in the wet earth that had been nourished the day before by springs lovely rains.

"I'm…I'm a mercenary. I am Swedish but-I'm hired strength if anythin' else." He mumbled a bit tiredly, as if he was stepping on egg shells with his words, as if he was a bit ashamed of his title and worth.

Tino quirked his eyes brows up, his breathing speeding back to normal as his heat began to slow its pace.

"A Mercenary in the Calvary?" Tino asked with bewilderment.

The figure huffed out a bit of cold misty air, Tino watching as his hands clutched his sides-the smell of iron catching in the Finn's nostrils, making him stir with fear. Blood.

"Aye, a bit silly don'tcha' know… I guess 'm a coward fer wanting tah' be paid fer my life when I should be givin' it up freely fer loyalty to Sister Sweden." He said bitterly yet almost sadly-as if he was telling an old friend his worth and he trusted the weight of his words to reach said friend.

Tino shook his head. This Swede should not have such a soft voice to the Finn, to a man who could be friend or foe. Tino was not this mans friend. And he hoped he never would be.

"If you are a mercenary-" Tino was about to say but suddenly stopped as the figure leaned back on his elbows and moved a bit in the earth, like a great big cat rolling around on the floor for a dust bath.

"Don't worry. Won't tell anyone that yer' out here. I know what the war does for people-nothin'. It takes and takes and nothin' else. Keep m' mouth shut." The man seemed run his fingers through his mouth as if sealing them with imaginary cement before Tino could see that he was smiling, the moon leaving a glint of white on those perfect teeth. Tino felt himself blush for an odd reason.

"Thank you, I appreciate that."

"Course I'll be wantin' somethin' in return fer' a promise kept." The man's voice crackled oddly with the hint of a small smile, making Tino's heart lurch forward and his brows furrow in fear.

"I have nothing to give you-my crops are bare, my animals all taken and eaten by your brethren. I have not many possessions, only a bit of coins…

"I don't want yer' livelihood." The man simply stated as he dragged is knees downward to sit up into the cool moonlight, his body showing itself like a tall pillar of a shadow that made Tino realize just how large the man must be, and therefore dangerous. Better give him what he wants…. Tino thought quiet desperately in his head.

"What is it that will require you to keep my cottage a secret from the war? To keep me safe?" Tino asked almost bitterly-expecting the man to request some outlandish price for a promise, such as his farm when the war was through, his land handed over, or himself as an indentured servant left to scrub tables and tend to goats.

"I wish 'tah share this secret with ya'. Together."

"What?" Tino hissed into the night air as he drew himself up, his breeches wet and dirty and his face red with anger and a bit of something else.

"I want at live with ya'-till th' war is over at least. I'm injured an' I need a place tah' stay…" He reasoned quiet smoothly, only his accent marling the words slightly.

Tino shook his head, only then realizing that the giant of a Swede probably could not make out the dismissive gesture in such darkness.

"No, absolutely not. I have nothing to feed you, nothing to dress you in, you would be a nuisance in your state! And heaven forbid the rest of the cavalry should find you! A Finn harboring a runaway Swedish soldier! It would mean my neck in a noose!"

"I am a mercenary. There is a' difference." The man retorted back simply as he too began to stand up, his bones creaking and his mouth flinching slightly as a hiss escaped his dry lips.

"The difference is small and could still mean my death. I shall not have such a threat looming over my head, no thank you!"

"I will pay you."

"In what? You fool! You have become injured from the military when the Danes have just invaded! You have no money to your name from what I can see-your horse is lame and no good in payment and you stink to high heaven with your dirtiness!" Tino scolded, feeling quiet well and empowered by yelling at this man, this Swede. Oh how he hated them and their ways how they took and took and defended useless land that was not ever there's to begin with!

The man seemed to pause after the Finn's rant to sniff at his shoulder before swinging his head away-Tino could almost see the mans eyes squint, those eyes that for now had been covered by the night but now glowed a sharp jade-like blue. Tino shivered, realizing that those eyes scared him.

"Ah, but I can pay ya'. If I give ya' a months supply a' food, will ya' let m' stay in yer cottage 'til m' health is restored?" The words were forced with hope and a bit of childish pleading, the man seeming to have never spoken for so long in his life as he began to fidget and his voice began to grow hoarse.

Tino rolled his eyes, trying desperately to feel no sympathy for this wounded man.

"Alright. Provide me with a months supply of food and you can very well stay here till the war is _over_!" He snapped disbelievingly.

Though the Finn couldn't see it, the Swede seemed to nod and smile grimly. Making a gruff grumble through his lips he staggered a ways away through the small gnarled twisted of the aspens, Tino following him right along, stringing insults and calling the Swedes' bluff of a promise of food. He was like a yapping white little dog at the Swede's heels.

"It is not right to lie to other people-there is no way you can provide such an amount of food! You lie, and I know it!" The Finn mumbled under his breath as the Swede in front of him, hobbled and smelling dank and wet from his opened wounds only made another mumbled of a noise before the Finn realized they were no longer alone.

Laying beneath the tangles of grass and rock was the horse from before. The animal was now on its side, its large belly rounded and heavy, the sweat and foam of white looking like that from ice-covering the things neck and sides. The horse lifted its head tiredly before, with a dismissive gesture, brought it down again to lay upon the wet dewed grass with a dulled thud.

The horse let out another sad sounding bleat before it hacked on its own breath and went back to mourning, its eyes flickering shut before opening again.

"What…What are you doing?" Tino asked quickly, his voice sounding shrill in the silence of the night, the muskets seeming to have been content to leave the two men in silence for a while.

"Holdin' up m' end a' th' bargain." The Swede replied rather sadly as he made his way over to the animals head, the horses muzzle working twice as hard to collect air for the poor thing to breathe.

"Wait-what? What do you mean-you can't! You can't!" Tino suddenly screamed, lurching for the shape of the man as he heard the rustle of leather and the unmistakable clink of a gun being released into the night.

The glint of a pistol shone though the black pit of the stars as the Finn's eyes grew wide and tears flew from his eyes as the horse below them neighed softly, sounding like a young colt once more, calling for her mother.

"It's a mercy killin', she's in pain… She'll provide some meat once this is all over…" The Calvary man tried to calm the Finn down with his words but Tino would not have it and instead tried to hit the gun away from the mans hands.

But the Soldier merely held the Finn with his left arm, pressing the Finn into his dirty uniform as he gritted his teeth.

Tino was about to cy out once more when he heard it, the shot of the pistol, the solitary shot that rang out into the air to join the other restless shots of muskets. That insignificant noise that no one else could hear, could care about. That once simple noise that would be followed by the tears of a Finn, the regret of a Swede, and the start of a little beautiful thing-called a Dala Horse.

…**..**

**OH MY GODS HE SHOT THE HORSE! Yeah. I'm an asshole. I know. **

**Authors Notes: **

-"Shh, Shh now, calm down! If ya' quit movin' and stay quiet I'll release m' hand-okej?"* **- "Okej" means "Okay" in Swedish. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Hello and Welcome! Here for your entertainment-Dala Horse chapter three! I'd like to thank my lovely translators, **MalinChan, yotzie, Ruusu, kooliobutterflyhahaha, Sine-k, Another Mad Swiss, Lillens, DianeLeBlanc99**, and **Sarai Onyx Vainamoinen. **Thank you very much guys! I **do not own **Hetalia **nor** it's characters-though **I do own** this story! I suggest listening to "**Gröne Lunden**" by **Omnia** for this story. **

…

Tino wiped the snot that was running down his red nose with his bared wrist-the sweat from his face and what was surely tears mixed with the crumpled dust that had been sprayed over him, left him muddy, sweaty, snotty and crying. But he didn't care. He _wouldn't_ care.

The ebony colored animal-as black as night with the exception of the stripe along it's muddied forehead-had died without a sound-no breath to have escaped from the things tired lungs, as if the animal knew it was to be sent away from this world and so prepared for it by sucking in it's breath tight and exhaling right before the shot rang through.

Tino wiped his eyes for the first time since they had stung warm and red-he swallowed thickly in his throat and turned his back on the man that was with him, who stood just as hovelled and sorely as the Finn-if not a bit more.

"'M Sorry-it had ta' be done…" The Swedish Soldier-Tino scowled low in his throat-no, the Swedish Mercenary-mumbled. Tino sneered, choosing anger as his remedy poison for the situation. Better to be mad than wailing your head off because a dying animal had to be killed. It was a mercy killing. Tino smiled bitterly. Mercy killing from a Mercenary. How nice.

"You will leave the horse here-the night air should keep it cold and unspoiled till early morning-I will expect you to pick it lean like a vulture-bring the strips of meat into the house, I'll salt them and roast some for our meal tomorrow." Tino instructed in a flat toned voice that did it's absolute very best to sound motionless-even, unaffected by any emotion whatsoever-especially sadness. No, he had too much sadness in his heart-it was time to be rid of the whole dreaded lot within him.

The man who would, it seemed, be in Tino's company for a while, simply nodded in understanding as he picked himself up off the ground and stood to his tall lofty height that still put Tino into an uneasy state.

"Follow me, Mercenary, your…_payment_, how ever displeasing to my taste, will be accepted. You are lucky I and my son are in need of food so badly, for else I would have contented myself leave you to the company of your fallen comrade out here in the cold." Tino spoke harshly into the now turning chilly night, as he patted his vest to be rid of the accumulated dirt from his previous stumble.

The Mercenary, though his face could barely be seen through the canopy of aspen and fir, tried his best to not seem sadden by the Finn's words, laden with spite they were.

Instead, the Swede decided to pry-to learn as much s he could from his rescuer, his savior who seemed to detest him till his last breath-perhaps the mercenary could lighten this Finn's heart and gain his respect, oh the jade eyed man could only hope.

"A son-you are a father? You have a wife?" The Swedish soldier spoke his words with care, with ease as he gently prodded into the Finnish mans life, in a personal quest to learn more, to seek more.

Tino scoffed, running his hands over his arms to keep of the cold. The two began to pick over mounds of soil that had been unearthed by a wobbly plow many days ago-when Tino still had a field worth plowing.

"Aye, I have a son. A lovely little boy. He was dropped off at my door when he was just a babe-I raised him on my own-no wife or mistress." Tino mumbled, his feet sinking deep into the soil that smelled rich and musty, a wonderful smell it was-did well to calm him down.

"'M sorry ta' hear that-'bout you bein' alone 'an all. 'S hard to raise children in these times-M' Mamma had a hard time rasin' me 'an m' brothers-no bread on th' table…" The Swede mumbled as he followed Tino out of the crumbling field left bare and scraggily.

"I do not want your pity." Tino merely spoke, his voice betraying it's once cold demur to flash with red anger.

The stranger sighed with defeat and followed his new landlord to the small cottage that could only barely be described as a shack of stone, straw and mason.

The night hung low upon the two as-the humming of the canons in the distant quieted-Tino rapped his knuckles upon the flimsy door of the cottage.

"Peter-Peter, it is Pappa… Open the door, Peter." Tino pressed his forehead to the door and breathed out through his nose before inhaling the musty scent of the pine planks that held the door together. He would be lying to himself if he thought telling Peter the truth of the oncoming matter would be easy. Peter would more than likely throw a fit-or jump around with glee at the opportunity of company-of another person in the house to talk to. Tino was hoping for the former reaction more than the latter.

Soon scuttling was heard from inside the cottage as bolts were unlocked, blocks of wood creaked about and the tapping of chains lifted from the locks became undone as the door slowly cracked open.

A corn-flower blue eye peered through the yellow lighted crack in the door-little blonde eyelashes dotting the sweet and curious eyes as tiny little hands pushed open the door, letting it swing softly, slowly.

"Peter, baby," Tino whispered to his son whose mouth had begun to open as wide as the moon, "We have company."

…

Oh was Peter delighted-Tino should have guessed as much.

After Tino had-as politely as his pride would let him-introduced little Peter to their new house guest, Peter hadn't kept his mouth shut-the excited child practically forgot to take breathes of air between words as he clamored over gibberish and exclamations of awe at being introduced to a Mercenary-a warrior as the young child dubbed him.

Tino rolled his eyes, finding the title of the Swedish stranger a bit too romanticized and all together a bit silly. So the man carried a musket and played target practice with a few Danish soldiers-big bloody deal.

But, Peter, who could not be blamed for such antics, continued on his ministrations and long asked questions of the blonde and jade eyed man whom Tino set to sit on a stool while he got a kettle of water boiling in the hearth.

"Now, Peter, he is wounded and probably so tired from fighting all day and…shooting things in the dark," Tino spoke bitterly, "let him rest! Be a good boy and fetch some blankets and make ready a bed! Hurry now!" Tino shooed the little sandy-blonde boy off, playfully pinching the childs cheeks making him pout and mumble. Tino only smiled fondly after his son before busying himself with cutting strips of old linen into bandages.

Damn Swede was already causing Tino to ruin what little cloth and sheets he had, not to mention he was already making best friends with his only child-bloody Swedish crown and all it's loyalties.

"He's a good kid-smart lad, with all 'is questions 'an such." Berwald commented softly, trying to dispel the glare from his face as he eased Tino into nice and easy conversation.

Tino would have none of it.

"Aye-he's a good boy. Touch one hair on his head and I'll cart you off in a wheel-barrel in pieces." Tino said with a flat toned voice as shallow and sleek as a lazy ponds surface.

Berwald pressed his eyebrows down in nervousness as he assured Tino, with absolute truth, that he wouldn't dream of harming such a bright and happy child.

To which Tino only mumbled and continued his feverish cutting, looking out of the small kitchen window that let in the twinkling lights of the stars. How he wished to be one of them-a constellation-perhaps the Bear, the bear was a strong animal-and Peter could be with him up in the sky as well as the little bear. Oh if only it were that simple to disappear from here.

"Names Berwald by th' way…" Berwald hummed, his low voice sounding as quiet and dark as the nights of winter well into December. Tino couldn't help but take a liking to the voice-even if he very well greatly disliked the person it belonged to. Emotions, such a tricky thing, even Tino himself couldn't escape from their twisting teases.

"Tino. My name is Tino." The Finn mumbled for politeness sake. He was brought up a good Christian man by his Mamma-he could show a sweet tongue and a few nice words when the mood struck him.

"T'no. Ti-Tino. Nice name, good simple Finnish name…" Berwald hummed with contentment, trying to flatter the Finn, compliment him where compliments were deserved.

"That's me, a good simple Finnish man." Tino mumbled dryly as, with a wicker bowl filled with strips of cloth he walked over to Berwald and laid them at the Swede's feet before, by the dim light from the hearth fire, he went back to collect the kettle of water that had begun to steam.

"Oh-Oh I din' mean ta' insult ya'-Tino, 's a good name! A lovely name, not simple at all-fierce name!" The man tried again, stumbling over his words so badly that he soon became tongue tied, leaving Tino to giggle slightly against his own best interest. _Damn Swedish men and their charming accents_, Tino cursed.

"Ya'-Ya' laughed." Berwald's voice lifted, a genuine smile upon his lips-though with much effort it must have taken none the less-his eyes too sparkled with merriment.

"So I did." Tino state simply, a soft, smile making it's quick and hasty appearance on his lips before being stubbornly wiped away by the Finn's better judgment.

"Ya' look so nice when ya' laugh, happy too." Berwald commented gently, his eyes blinking as he squinted in the low light.

Tino said nothing for a few quiet seconds, thankful for the little light in the room, for he really had no want to explain why his pulse had suddenly quickened and his face grew just a tad bit pink. Thank goodness for the lack of light, thank goodness.

"Thank you, Berwald," Tino allowed himself to say before he cleared his throat and resumed his pace, walking back to the Swede's side he set the hot kettle on the dirt floor-the copper metal hissing and steaming as it came in contact with the slightly damp chilled soil.

Berwald only hummed after that, his eyes softer yet still sharp with interest, with knowledge-with an ability to read people when he was often the hardest to read by others.

Berwald wanted to be able to read this man, this violet eyed Finn who, though he had blatantly spoke of his distrust, his anger towards the Swedish crown, was helping a lone Mercenary who was without a home and horse. Who out of the goodness of his God given heart was opening up-was, hell, even laughing and on occasion letting a smile slip.

Oh yes, Berwald wanted to understand this fellow with the straw colored hair and the small almost unrecognizable smile. He wanted to know with all his heart, because he knew this young man, no matter how angry he appeared to be, was so innocent and sweet-he wouldn't hurt a fly.

…

It didn't take long till Berwald was howling in pain and screaming bloody murder at the top of his lungs.

"Honestly! You pride yourself as a mercenary and here you are-crying up a storm like a scullery maid who slipped and fell into a patch of thistles!" Tino scolded the bigger man as he began to tend to the upper arm wounds of the giant.

Berwald hissed through his teeth and bit down hard on his bottom lip to suppress another wail of pain.

"Believe me-I'd take th' thistle patch any day o'er this!" He groaned as Tino gently pressed another ball of whiskey soaked cotton to the thin gashes-some of them from trees switches, some from scuffles-other deeper, thinner-ones from rapiers. Tino frowned as he looked onward at the pinkish scars-some still vibrant and red like the glossy color from a red apple. This mans flesh was in some sorry state.

"You must hold still now!" Tino grumbled at the Swede twitched and shifted into his seat upon the three legged stool that was too low for his body so that his long gangly legs (which Peter commented affectionately were like Daddy-long-leg spider legs) were jutted outward at what must have been an increasingly aching position.

It didn't help either that the little cottages cupboards had a low selection of alcohol to use as disinfectant. Tino had gladly offered to use some of his home made distilled vodka for the Swedes' wounds, to which Berwald assured the Finn that he'd rather not have something so flammable near his vital organs and wounds.

After a few more dabs' of whiskey on an especially trickily deep wound Tino decided that stitches would have to be administered if the Swede wanted to not wake up one morning with a rotted off limb, to which Berwald whined and cursed softly in Swedish before giving Tino the right away if need be.

And after a good ten minutes of thrashing and biting and growling and swearing-to which Tino would always hit Berwald on the knee, reminding him that they were in the presence of a child- the little needle and thread that Tino had expertly used to close the minor wound shut was put away.

But, Tino warned, the wound could still fester so they had to keep a mighty good eye on it just in case.

To which Berwald only grumbled and nodded, his arm hurting him something awful and he could only glare accidentally in sullen spite.

"Well, now that you're left arm is done we can get on with the rest of your wounds." Tino hummed softly, wiping his hands on his trousers as he and Peter began the next soaking of rags for the rest of the Swede.

Berwald could only sigh through his teeth and remind himself to be thankful no matter how painful Tino was (He thought intentionally) making this procedure to be.

So, with rather reluctant fingers, Berwald began to fiddle with his coat and work with the yellow and blue rolled up sleeves till, with gentle care and hisses and growls, he got the cavalry jacket off without doing too much damage to his raw skin.

After that came the vest which was, like the coat, dry and red with caked blood. It smelled foul just from where Tino was sitting, Berwald could see it on his scrunched up face.

But, the Finn, by some shred of graciousness, did not comment on the sorry state of the Swede and instead helped him off with the undershirt till Berwald's battered and bruised body appeared dully and filthily dusty against the smoky light of the hearth.

Tino frowned, eyeing the worst of the problem.

Near the right hip of the Swede was a molten patch of a bruise that, in the middle had been bled open by the end of a pike of sorts-no bullet hole thankfully, but it didn't make the wound look any less nasty.

"Peter, honey. This might take a while-why don't you tuck yourself in bed…" Tino mumbled to Peter who had been fixated on the soldiers lashed body with disturbed awe.

"But Pappa-" Peter was about to argue when Tino cut him off swiftly.

"No, Peter. Go get yourself the last crust of bread in the bread box and get straight to bed! Pappa will be there to say goodnight to you later." Tino turned his head to glace a stern warning at Peter who, by the tone in his Pappa's voice decided it wasn't worth the argue and, begrudgingly, stood himself up and, with dramatic movements set himself to the bread box then his room.

"'S that bad, huh?" Berwald commented softly after Peter had left to go into some room without a door-what Berwald guessed was the bedroom.

"You'll live. It's just a lot of blood is all. You'll be sore and bed ridden for a week or two-three if it crusts over. But you'll live, probably…" Tino mumbled, not even looking Berwald in the eye as his thin and skilled fingers worked with padding away at the Swede's pale flesh tenderly till the rag came back red.

Berwald's eyes lit up with nervousness at the Finn's words.

"Probably?" Berwald repeated the Finn, his voice dredged with disbelief.

Tino only smiled softly, the inklings of a chuckle in the back of his throat.

"The Swede cannot take a joke?" Tino tilted his head to the side to curl his lips upward, causing the fear in Berwald's face to disappear as he sighed with relief.

"Oh you tricky Finn, you think yer' clever." Berwald mused, his mind trying to relieve the tension that his body felt as the Finn's clothed hands worked deeper and deeper around the wound till the cloth not only came back red, but sticky as well.

"Oh, fettered Swede, I _know_ I am clever!" Tino hummed with laughing eyes as he pulled the cloth back to its place on a slab of wood and got to work dressing the wound with a bit of crushed slippery Elm bark mixed with a concoction of sweet smelling honey and water to ease and aid in the healing process.

The mixture was cold and sticky as it was slathered along the open wound of the Swede, but he bit his tongue and minded his cries of pain as the two were quite sure Peter was fast asleep and would more than likely not like to be woken up from sleep by howls and shouts of pain.

After an hour later, the fire reduced to embers, the Swede was finally cleaned as well as he would ever be and each cut, wound, or scrap that was in need of attention was given and wrapped up neatly by Tino's excellent handy-work.

"How do you know how to dress wounds so well, clever Finn?" Berwald asked Tino with interest and a bit of teasing in his voice as he fiddled with a borrowed tunic that Tino had been kind enough to lend him-though the Finn was a bit bitter about it, knowing the Swede would burst the stitches of the shirt open, seeing as how Berwald was as big as a damned ox.

Dumb big Swede the Finn had said.

Tino sighed and placed the last of the dirtied bandages in a pale of cold water to be rid of the blood and to be reused later in the morning.

"When you live so close to war, and the possibility of being hurt is great and with a child who doesn't mind his way and often scrapes his knees-one must always be well rehearsed in matters of healing." Tino sighed wearily as he rubbed the back of his neck in a frustrated and tired gesture, his eyes darting over to the small room that Peter had disappeared to not so long ago.

"Ah…Yer' right, sorry fer' askin'." Berwald mumbled, his eyes too becoming more sleepy, his shoulders heavy and aching, as Tino very well warned him they would be. Yet Berwald still tried to keep his face calm-in the hopes that it wouldn't end up in one of his many vicious glares that he tends to obtain by no reason. Best not to scare the little Finn who had given him so much hospitality.

Tino waved his hand in the air with decisiveness.

"Do not worry about it. I'm glad my healing abilities became of use. Though I hate to admit it now-saving your sorry looking self from being eaten by wolves or gunned down by a Dane was, well, not such a bad thing after all. Plus I have food to fill my childs belly with-so that is something to be thankful for." Tino spoke to himself as he showed Berwald to a small little mattress that had been filled plump with extra hay for added comfort and was covered softly with an array of blankets curtsey of Peter (Peter having only picked the brightest and color fullest ones they had-telling his Pappa that he knew for a fact that Berwald would like the reds, greens, and browns).

Berwald thanked the Finn silently and slipped his sorry and aching body deep into the covers nice and snug, a rolled up woolen blanket for his pillow.

Yet before the Finn left the small dark room that housed the Swedish Cavalry-Mercenary, Berwald had one simple question to ask of the Finn.

"Why? Why are ya' helping' me? A Swede whom it is clear that ya' hate." Berwald mumbled into the solid and still smoky darkness of the kitchen-living area.

Tino paused at the doorframe of his and Peters' shared bedroom a little ways away from the propped up Swede.

Tino chewed his lip softly between his teeth before, he smiled mostly to himself.

"I think…I think it's because I realized that-you-you yourself did not ruin me or my farm. You yourself did not take the bread from my childs mouth nor the pride in my heart. It was the others-the ones who do this for country, for stale beliefs and pompous wealth and glory. But not you. You fight and fought because you needed to make a living-not the most honorable way to make money of course-but you did it to survive. I can relate to that, for I too am just trying to survive." Tino spoke into the warmed air, his heart quieting, his eyes drooping in their want of sleep.

Such words felt so wonderful spilling from his mouth, because they were true and truth and sure. Tino didn't hate Berwald-Berwald had done nothing to him but give him food to eat and company to share.

"Such noble words, such kindness-ya' truly are an angel among men." Berwald spoke quietly in awe and in favor, his voice doing it's best to not rumble.

Tino shook his head in the darkness before chuckling slightly.

"I am no angel." Tino mused as he pushed his body away from the creaking cold wall of the cottage and made his way nearer to the door to his bed where he would find his rest.

"No? And why are ya' not an angel?" Berwald asked with pursuit as he watched the Finn turn his head for one last time before he disappeared into the doorway.

"Because," Tino smirked, "before I resolved that I liked you and your company I laced cayenne pepper in some of your dressing wounds. It's gonna' itch like hell in a few minutes-Sweet dreams fettered Swede." Tino chuckled as he vanished into the inky darkness of the cottage.

Berwald sighed through his nose and let his head fall back onto the blankets, his eyes starting off into nothing as he simply smiled softly into the night.

"G'd night, clever Finn." He mumbled, his fingers lazily starting to itch against the bandages of his wounds that burdened like hellfire-but all he did was smile at his good fortune at finding an angel from above on a battle field below hell.

…

**Well. Looks like Tino seems to have taken a liking to Berwald, eh? Oh and I guess you guys have noticed, Berwalds' accent isn't too bad-hope you guys are okay with that! I hope you guys liked this chapter! REVIEW PLEASE I'M BEGGIN' YA, GUYS! COME ON!**

…


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello and Welcome! Here for your entertainment-Dala Horse chapter four! I'd like to thank my lovely translators, **MalinChan, yotzie, Ruusu, kooliobutterflyhahaha, Sine-k, Another Mad Swiss, Lillens, DianeLeBlanc99**, and **Sarai Onyx Vainamoinen. **Thank you very much guys! I **do not own **Hetalia **nor** it's characters-though **I do own** this story! I suggest listening to "**_Namndemans-Ola_**" by **_Garmarna_ **for this story. **

…

It was not the birds chirping that woke him up, startled him from his less than pleasant sleep. Nor was it the cold air that swept against him through the slits and cracks in the stone walls. It was not the scuffling of feet on the dusty dirt floor, not the banging of copper pots and the dull thwaps of barrels sloshing with cold water. No, it was none of that.

It was the smell.

Sizzling, popping, crackling. Oil heating in a copper pan, slabs of lightly pinkish meat turning dark red and greasy - lathered in wild angelica and rolling in a healthy coating of chopped mushrooms picked fresh this morning from the earthy dirt wet with dew. It was the sound of ladles clinking against a stout wooden table, little clay plates chipped and messily painted clattering against table tops as the heavenly smelling mixture was scooped out of the pan and set to cool. He could hear the soft sawing of a knife as it was carving up a slab of bread or meat, perhaps vegetable? It didn't matter. It was a sound, a smell, that set Berwald's stomach to growling. It was the mouth watering aroma that pleasantly brought Berwald back to the year 1700, back to the Great Northern War, back to the tiny stone cottage on the outskirts of _Holstein-Gottorp_. Back into the midst of what was once hell but had now become a bit more bearable thanks to a savior Angel with amethyst eyes.

It was the smell that caused Berwald to groan in his sleep and awaken, covered in small shallow scratches by his own fingers itching as he had plucked at his iritated skin from the night before. He must have only gotten a few hours of sleep at the least, but my what a few hours did to clear his head. Oh there was still a quiet throbbing at his temple, still a flush of black that would creep over his eyes occasionally, and the pain was an ever-reminding remnant of what Berwald was now limited to do with his body, but at least he was alive. At least he wasn't in a ditch somewhere, muddied and cold with the smell of dried blood and death around him. At least he was with Tino and Peter.

Berwald couldn't lie, he did feel better, stronger, and a hell of a lot happier.

He was pleased with himself that he did not scream once during the night from pain, as his fragile bruises and damaged ribs cried out in protest at whichever way he slept. He rolled over what must have been a hundred times before his body deemed comfortable enough to rock him into sleep.

He slept without dreams, which was nice for a change. No bloodied faces of his past friends and acquaintances, no sounds of canons or the fizzing blasts of muskets being lighted. No screams of comrades and enemies, and no pained groans of horses falling like heavy boulders left to rot in the mud. No sounds of dying horses.

Berwald's mind was thankfully stopped from delving into his past memories, his past thoughts and actions that drove him and took him into the war that just yesterday he was fully a-part of. He would have to go back soon, but not now, not today. He could wait, would wait as long as it took. He never wanted to go back.

"I think he's awake, Pappa!" Berwald heard the curious chirping voice near his ears, could feel little tiny pokes mindfully pressed against his other shoulder, the one without the bloodied bandages.

The Sweden suddenly tensed up and breathed in and out through his nose before he flew his eyes open and made a teasing growl like a lion, resulting in Peter falling backward on his bum with fright before he squealed with delight and started giggling madly. Berwald joined him in his laughter, Peter soon growling and hissing like a little lion till they both couldn't breath they were sniggering so hard.

"_Honestly_! I send you to wake him up gently and hear you are, rolling on the floor getting your good Sunday clothes dirty! I have the right mind to tan you, young man!" Tino scolded from somewhere above Peter and Berwald, his voice slowly loosing it's anger by the second.

"Sorry, Pappa…"Peter grumbled in the distance, Berwald hearing the young child scuffle upwards on his knees to stand attentive like a good little boy should.

Berwald looked up from his sitting position to wipe the grime and sweat from his face with the back of his hand, his eyes still betraying the laughter that had joined in with Peter's a few moments ago.

"Was my fault. I got 'im riled up." Berwald explained, his voice soft and low, still heavily sedated with sleep

Tino rolled his eyes and tsked before wiping his hands on the little linen apron tied round his waist, his palm marks on the cloth stained brown with dirt.

"I don't care whose fault it is! Now, we best be getting you up and seated at the table - I don't care how bruised you are! We may live like dogs, but that doesn't mean we have to behave like 'em!" Tino grumbled as he started peeling away the sweat drenched blankets from Berwald's makeshift bed, the Swede helping by awkwardly rolling and flattening the blankets to the side. Berwald then scratched the back of his head, wincing as his touch hit tender skin, which resulted in Tino chiding him and fluttering around him like a frazzled hen squawking at her chick.

Then, after some gracious coaxing from Tino, the Swede attempted to sit up straighter, resulting in his lips pushing out a hissed growl as his bandages gave weigh, rubbing painfully against his wounds that had surely been opened by the movement.

He shivered slightly when the cold morning air graced his legs and bared arms after the bandages began to slip, but the warmth of the Finn's hands soon propping him up calmed him down and stopped his teeth from chattering. Tino was warm, Berwald could only think pleasantly in his head. Tino was warm all over.

"Let me get my arms under you - that's it - now _heave!_" Tino was talking against Berwald's ear as the little but massively strong Finn helped to hunch Berwald to his feet, his wounds surely ripping slightly as the Swede let out a hiss of a noise that he was too embarrassed to accept came out of his mouth.

Tino shook his head with worry as he swung Berwald's arm over his shoulders, the Finn biting his pretty pink lip against pearly white teeth. Berwald had a hard time keeping himself from staring at those curved lips.

It wasn't as if Berwald hadn't noticed the Finn's beauty, his soft yet farmers worked skin and bright jewel eyes that shone like polished amethyst. His dove soft hair as yellow as dried wheat and his strong arms and hands that had nursed Berwald back from what could have been a slow and painful death by rotting and blood loss. Berwald owed everything to this beautiful creature. Berwald owed him his life and loyalty. But he was beginning to realize that he was slowly owing him his heart.

…

Breakfast was a hard thing for Berwald to get used to let alone achieve without spilling all over himself like a damned toddler.

His arm that was stitched up something awful was placed in his lap like a wounded wing, unmovable and uncooperative. His back ached sorely and it hurt to have it pressed to the hind of a skeletal wooden chair. He grumbled so persistently that Tino was soon persuaded into pressing a few rolled up blankets against the back of the chair for the Swedes added comfort. Of course Tino would complain that the blankets smelled of sweat and mud and Swede, but, other than that he was happy to make Berwald as comfortable as possible.

Berwald soon found out though, that breakfast, however maneuverable challenging, was delicious and hearty and it filled the Swede's stomach happily.

Apparently before he had woken up this morning Tino had arisen at the crack of dawn and, with a cloth covered pale and a cleaver, had made the small trek to the outskirts of the barren cabbage field where he cut and slivered a bit of horse meat from the mares sides till the blood ran sticky like sap. He took as much as he could carry to lessen the journey later in the morning when all the usable meat must be collected and salted before it rotted in the sun.

Peter himself boasted that he helped his Pappa with the mixing bowl of herbs and even got to use the big boy knife to cut the wild mushrooms while Tino focused on frying the meat and salting the little bit left over that he had from the first journey.

At Peter's achievements Berwald patted the boy atop his head and ruffled his hair till the little boys freckled face shined and gleamed with vanity, to which Tino dabbled in his napkin and muttered for his son to be more modest.

However the Finn couldn't help but smile and blush when Berwald commented on how delicious the meat was cooked and that the spice did him just right when it was on the meat and not in his wound salve to which Tino could only chuckle and meekly apologize for.

It seemed like they were a real family, together at one table, however hurting each one was, one from physical and mental wounds, the other from panic and worry, and the littlest one from loneliness. Yet they somehow completed each other, Berwald would have liked to think. Like a broken family all fixed up nicely with glue and thread that gleamed gold. Broken and better for it.

And as Berwald began to fork at his last strip of meat, and chew the tough flank between his aching teeth, he didn't feel so alone. He didn't feel so confused. The pain in his chest and shoulders began to subside and his head began to push back all the musty dread that had been building up for days.

It all became alright, it all became clear. Tino's laughter at Berwald's stupid jokes, Peter's toothless grinning as he chewed his food with his mouth open, and Berwald's humming and contented eyes as he sat at the table just musing and wondering how beautiful the world had just gotten.

It was like there was no war, there was no strife outside these flimsy walls. No pikes sunken into flesh, no rapiers clinking and cutting shrilly into the air. No sound of hooves on the horizon. No horses screaming and canons going off with blasts. It was like the world outside was no more. Only the sound of a family, could reach Berwald's ears, no matter how broken or fabricated.

…**.**

**Short chapter is short, but you got some fluff! I am sorry I haven't updated anything in a while guys, but it just got to be Sumer Vacation, so look out for some updates! Please Review, it motivates me and keeps the dolphins away!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello and Welcome! Here for your entertainment-Dala Horse chapter five! I'd like to thank my lovely translators, **MalinChan, yotzie, Ruusu, kooliobutterflyhahaha, Sine-k, Another Mad Swiss, Lillens, DianeLeBlanc99**, and **Sarai Onyx Vainamoinen. **Thank you very much guys! I **do not own **Hetalia **nor** it's characters-though **I do own** this story! I suggest listening to "**_Antiokia_**" by **_Garmarna_ **for this story. **

…

Breakfast went by smoothly, with only a few pricks of pain to echo through Berwald's body. The cushions at his back however, did wonders for his aching bones and his arm, however immobile, was at rest at his sides, the stitching only bothering him some when he moved the wrong way.

And the food did just right for the Swede's stomach - leaving him full and satisfied, his mouth for once not tasting like Slippery Elm Gruel - awful stuff wasn't even pleasant laced with honey.

But soon the pleasant conversation of past families - Tino announcing quiet fondly that he had a cousin in Norway who had escaped the tyranny of the war and was instead running a sheep farm - came to an end.

"I should hate to ruin this easy mood, but I must ask. How is the war going so far? Are we winning, are we losing? Or is it a statement?" Tino's voice, laughter quickly leaving his face, asked. His hands flickered over to Berwald's empty plate to collect it and place it to soak in a watering pale.

Berwald cleared his throat in his fist, wishing very much that the conversation hadn't delved into this - but it seemed no helping it. They were in the middle of a war, he was a mercenary, and he did have troubles and stories to tell.

"Well," The Swede began with soft breath, "As ya' know Sister Sweden has under her control Karelia, Ingria an' Estonia - which, against Russia's better judgment, is blocking advancements from th' Slavic's west." Berwald took a sip of some offered coffee - the shortage running so low on goods that earlier Tino had ground dandelion root into the grounds for fear of the supply running short.

"Aye, I know Russia and Poland-Saxony are stopped short in their attack, but that the Danes are remedying that situation quiet well." Tino murmured, absently wiping some grease from Peter's mouth with a washcloth, the child grumbling and trying to twist away from his Pappa's dotting.

"The Danes are fueled by the hatred of their king, as they rightfully should. We have land that's not ours…" Berwald shrugged, relaxing his wounded arm on the table for a bit, his neck killing him from where the linen cloth weighed heavy on his skin.

"That may be so, but it doesn't give them the excuse to attack our home! I fear for my life every night those muskets go off - they will be coming soon, they will find my cottage!" Tino shook his head, trying to keep his voice under control in the presence of his child.

"Well, if it makes ya' feel any better, th' Swede's will be retaliatin' against Denmark's attacks here in Holstein-Gottorp. We've got aide from an' Anglo-Dutch fleet as well as our own navy, an' we're gonna' take real good care of Zealand too. Threatenin' Copenhagen's our only way ta' force th' Danes out a' th' war, though." Berwald spoke while helping Tino clear the table of the saucer of watered down milk and the platter of left over horse meat that had cooled at it's place.

Tino hummed softly, taking in everything that Berwald said. By what he was being told, Tino could very well now envision an end to this war - or at least an end to the Danish muskets firing over his heads. He didn't feel the least bit guilty in thinking that he didn't care the outcome of the war, of the safety of Sweden - just as long as Holstein-Gottorp was safe. That was all that mattered to him in the world.

"Enough talk about the war now, it's far too horrible a subject." Tino huffed, wiping his hands as clean as they would get on his trousers.

Berwald nodded, liking very much he prospect of changing the subject.

"Well, then, why don't we go out and get the rest of the horse meat before it's lost to us by the afternoon sun!" Tino exclaimed, picking Peter up from his chair to set him on his feet at the ground.

The child beamed up at his Pappa, wanting to help more than ever if it meant he got to eat heartily everyday from now on.

"What can I do, Pappa?" Peter asked, a gap in his teeth showing from where he smiled.

Tino grinned down at the child and patted his head lovingly, contentedly.

"I've got a special job for you, I do!" Tino exclaimed, making his way to the skeletal shelves that were covered in dust - almost all of them barren.

Once his fingers, nimble and thin, reached outward to pluck a yellowed paper from it's place, the page looking to have been ripped clean from a book.

A few inked lines showed nicely scrawled handwriting, and even the scattered pictures of what looked to Berwald to be plants of all shapes and sizes - fat leaves and skinny leaves - some with petals, some without.

Tino bent to eyelevel of the little British child, his eyes kind as he handed him the fainted page that smelled musty and none too clean.

"While Berwald and I are collecting the meat, I want you to, mind you staying near my eye-sight, collect the herbs that I've marked with a drop of red dye. I am running quite low on them." Tino relayed his instructions to the little boy, who, with determined eyes, nodded and saluted Tino like a footman would to his Lord. It made Tino smirk and laugh, his palm covering his giggles.

Then, with the speed that would put a jack-rabbit to shame, Peter ran up to a few pegs of wood on the white-washed wall and yanked down a little leather sachet stained with what looked like a few years worth of dirt.

"That's my good boy." Tino mused as he ran his own hands over the rough rope handle of a wooden bucket, a cloth of brown laid nice and neatly at it's bottom to keep the meat as clean as possible.

Berwald too was armed with two buckets much like Tino's own, and his own knife for cutting at the slabs of horse flesh.

The Swede was a bit taken aback that the Finn would even present him with such a sharp instrument, but Tino only smiled and told him that he believed Berwald to be a good Christian man, and knew that the Swede would do nothing to harm him.

Berwald, flattered beyond belief, only nodded his head dumbly and followed the Finn and his son outside the small stale cottage and into the breezy outside, the smell of gun smoke and death barely reaching their nostrils.

Once their feet found the slightly trampled path of meadowsweet and saw grass, Tino began to whistle a tune through his lips, his hands swinging the pales at his fingers with ease, knife tucked nice and easy at his belt.

Peter too, began to feel an upheaval of spirits overtake him, and he soon found a dragonfly to occupy his fancy, the child running around in circles to catch the crafty thing.

Yet all too soon Berwald and Tino's noses caught the scent of old blood, and Tino, noticing the aspens shapes much clearer now that it was daylight, shooed Peter on his way to collect the herbs that he needed to be replenished.

Yarrow, Blessed Thistle, Nettle, and Cowslip were on the list, and Tino only hope the young lad would stop in his delights at play just long enough to at least fill his sachet with some of each specimen.

After the child was occupied to root through grass with a fallen pines bough, Tino and Berwald set to work at navigating themselves through the copse of trees, the aspens shimmering like jewels as the wind blew through them, the sound noisy but pleasant.

Then, they attested the damages.

The flies, had, unfortunately gotten there before they did.

Already Berwald could see the whole lot buzzing and whirling around the dead animals face, coating her eyes and nostrils - the place where Tino had ct at her sides even worse - they would not be able to cut any more from that side of the mare, lest they wanted to infect themselves with something and make themselves sick.

Tino was madder than anything, cursing his own stupidity at cutting away before they had taken proper care to take the whole lot of meat in once coarse.

"I had thought the early morning chill would keep the meat… I'm afraid I was wrong." Tino mumbled sullenly, taking out his carving knife, inspecting other areas to cut.

"'S not a complete loss. Once we get 'er shaved an' light, we'll turn 'er over. Get th' other side of 'er." Berwald tried to console the Finn who was already bent down near the corpse, collar of his shirt pulled up over his nose to shield away from the stench of sun-stoked meat.

"Yes, I suppose you're right." His voice was muffled as he spoke, but Berwald heard it none the less, bending down next to the beasts neck.

A whole froth of flies scattered from where they moved their arms, where they sliced with their knives, where they breathed in the sad sad stench of death.

But, Tino thought in his head as he cut at the horses stomach, letting the unusable organs slop to the ground - collecting the rest with hands stained red with chilled blood, It was better than nothing. If the horse had to have died from her suffering, he realized, at least her death was not in vain.

…

After hours of cutting, quartering, piling red meat high into buckets too small, and taking back and forth trips to the small smoke house, the two men deemed their exploits done.

The unusable meat, which wasn't much, was thrown away from the corpse to be picked at later by wild dogs and vultures who Tino assured Berwald, were just as hungry and deserving of food as they were.

Berwald exclaimed with a sigh in his throat as he nursed his now aching arm that was now acting up, that they had enough meat to last a whole clan of soldiers. To which Tino frowned teasingly and retorted with only having enough to feed a lame Swede, a scrawny Finn and a freckled Englishman.

Berwald laughed and nodded his head, wiping his blood stained hands on the grass in front of him, the flies now following him and the Finn as they took the last of their harvest home.

Peter soon joined them, knowing not to ask where the food that was set at the table came from, and instead decided to jabber on and on about the robins nest he had found - emptied, but still enthralling never the same - and, with fumbling fingers, he showed his Pappa' a sachet filled with ripe herbs. He got everyone on the list and then some.

"You did a fine job Peter, a fine job." Tino smiled at his child, Peter all but beaming back at his father with pride.

Then, with the both of them reeking from high heaven with a stench so awful, Berwald and Tino walked back to the cottage with contentment if not a bit sadden silence. The back of their minds reminding them that they were leaving the last of the horse to smolder in the meadows grounds - Berwald promising to one day take the horses bones and bury her nice and proper - not like a soldiers horses funeral, but as a friend.

…

Once back in the cool safely of the stone mason walls that kept the house cold in the summer and warm in the winter, Tino began to slowly take each pale of usable meat and place them in the washing bowl, cleaning them softly with careful fingers before placing them in another bucket to await their turn on the drying rack.

Peter, who had soon grown bored with salting the strips of meat, began to roll his feet on the only rug on the dirt floored room, his hands fumbling with his colorless toy blocks.

Berwald too was shooed out of the kitchen by Tino, who exclaimed he would be more trouble than help with his lame arm.

It took skill to coat the meat, to steam, smoke or boil it, and Tino didn't want to loose an ounce of it because some lame Swede couldn't follow directions.

So, Berwald, having been guiltily pushed away from the pales of cooling meat, sat himself down on a stool besides Peter, watching the child place wooden block upon block together to make a fort.

"Nice lookin' Hall." Berwald complimented the child, who nodded with agreement, though his brow soon furrowed.

"It's missin' something' though." The child spoke, his fingers playing with the forked twigs he had collected over the years that he used as soldiers.

Berwald frowned too, noticing that the amassed cascading of blocks was indeed missing something.

The building looked alright, impenetrable - for stick enemy soldiers that was - and the men who guarded the structure looked sound enough, if not a bit simple.

Then, it hit Berwald.

Horses. They were missing horses.

Sitting himself up creakily and achingly, Berwald stumbled to the Finn with a smile on his lips.

"Tino, can I borrow one of your knives? A Dull one'll do." The Swede asked excitingly, entreating the Finn to laughing confusion as he hands him a small knife, newly cleaned from it's place at the wash basin.

"Thank ya'." He nods to him with a grin before he sat himself down again, gesturing Peter to give him one of his spare blocks.

The child, with just the hinting of skepticism on his face, huffed and gave in, placing a knobby looking cube in Berwald's hands.

Tino, looking from his place at stirring the beginnings of a cauldron of soup, only smiled as he watched the Swede, engrossed with his work, begin to shave and carve at the barren block.

"What are you doing, fettered Swede?" Tino chuckled as his fingers dropped some fresh Nettle into the stew, the greens sting soon would dissolve into a harmless tasty additive to the stock.

"Never you mind, tricky Finn." Berwald grinned, his head still bowed low to his work. His knife had already began to uncover two tiny little points from the wood, the edge of the instrument sweeping against the soft pine of the wood.

Peter, his rump on the woolen rug, could only stare at the Swede's work with amazement with glassy eyes.

After a few long minutes, the odd and slightly mangled shape of a head breached away from it's imprisonment from the wood.

After five more minutes, the head was accompanied by the stout sloping of a neck, the wood swirling around the animals head - soft and pale looking.

Then, ten minutes had to show of the animals belly, Peter finally shouting with joy as the legs too were uncovered, then the shapely shortness of a tale, and finally the little creature was done.

Excited beyond belief, Peter grabbed at the toy that Berwald held out to him, running the grainy surface with his fingers, smelling the hint of sharpness from the wood.

"What is it?" Peter exclaimed, running the pads of his fingers over the curved little snout of the thing, his lips erupting into giggles.

Berwald paused in his laughter as he watched the young boy delighted with his new present, Tino even coming to take a look at the object.

"It's…It's ah' horse…" Berwald spoke, setting the now done knife on the table nearest to him.

Tino mused at his child who was now holding the horse high in the air, bending his wrist back and forth to make the animal move with his hand.

"It's might pretty. God could not have made a more beautiful thing." Tino smiled down at the Swede whose own lips gave back a gentle curve of his lips.

"And a work so fine as this, deserves payment!" Tino laughed, handing Berwald a wooden bow filled with warmed soup, wild mushrooms and nettle swirling with the horse meat broth.

Berwald thanked him sweetly, before blowing on the mixture to cool it down, his spoon ready to dive into the heavenly smelling soup.

"And what will you name such a pretty creature, Peter?" Tino asked as he sat on an abandoned stool, wiping his hands with a cloth absently.

Peter grinned, his smile showing fierce as his gaze looked onward to the small little horse.

"Her name with be Dala. Dala horse." The child smiled with glee, nestling the toy horse to his neck with love.

The horse never looked so lovely nuzzled to the child's cheeks.

…

**So, was this chapter better than the last one? I hope so! Please Review, my lovelies! **


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